


How Long Will I Love You

by MacPherson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, reunited and it's very anxiety-inducing, you might think there's Combeferre/Enjolras but spoiler alert nope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15650703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: “I didn’t know how to be your friend without being in love with you. And I think I still don’t.”Courfeyrac and Combeferre broke up seven years ago, when they went their separate ways for college. They haven't seen each other since. So seeing someone who looks just like Combeferre in his new coffee shop is something of an unwelcome experience for Courfeyrac.





	How Long Will I Love You

Courfeyrac believes in having A Coffee Shop. Yes, capitalized like that. A Coffee Shop where he’s a regular, where he knows the baristas.

Moving to a new city for a new job means he has to find his new coffee shop. It’s a long, at times frustrating process, but he knows it’ll be worth it once he has His Coffee Shop.

He starts by googling. He reads reviews (but always takes negative ones with a grain of salt because some people are just ridiculous), and looks at the menus. Anywhere that doesn’t use certified Fair Trade coffee is off the list of candidates immediately. Anywhere that serves café Cubano is definitely on the list, even though his abuela will always say the café here will never be as good as the café back on the island.

By the time he actually moves, he has the list narrowed down to four coffee shops that are within easy walking distance of his new apartment.

He tries the first one on his way to his office on his first day at work. The music is way too loud and he almost has to shout for the barista to hear his order. That one is off the list.

He tries the next shop the next morning. The angle of the morning sun coming in the window is really distracting, and since this is somewhere he’d like to come on the weekends to do work, that’s an unfortunate deal-breaker.

The third one, he really likes. The coffee is good (and fair trade, obviously), the staff is the right level of friendly, the chocolate croissant is delicious, and the decor is very homey. There’s a corner with armchairs and couches, and the chair he selects is really, really comfortable.

This could be the one, but Courfeyrac has to visit the fourth on his list just to make sure.

Going to the fourth the next morning only reinforces his gut instinct that the third is, in fact, His Coffee Shop.

So he’s back to the Musain on Saturday morning, a heavy case file in tow. He settles in a comfy chair by the window with his coffee and breakfast sandwich—he’s going to need protein to fight his way through all this paperwork.

He’s completely focused on the case he’s working on, until something suddenly jolts him back seven years to the best year of his life.

That something is a laugh.

It’s fairly quiet, not one that grabs the attention of everyone in the room. It’s warm and kind, and it does things to Courfeyrac that haven’t been done in a long time.

It sounds exactly like the way Combeferre used to laugh at Courfeyrac’s jokes.

Courfeyrac loved Combeferre’s laugh, and he still loves what it represents: his young, naive love. The one that got away.

Before he can stop himself, Courfeyrac’s head has snapped up and he’s looking for the source of that beautiful sound. His eyes go directly to the two people waiting in line, who are chatting with each other with easy familiarity. Clearly friends. Or maybe more.

One of men--Courfeyrac is assuming they’re men, but there’s no way to be sure of someone’s gender identity without asking them, which he isn’t going to do, because these people are strangers to him and that’s creepy--is incredibly blonde and almost aggressively attractive in a way that Courfeyrac can appreciate on an aesthetic level but doesn’t really do anything for him personally.

The other man is the source of the laughter. His back is to Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s beautiful.

His laugh sounded so much like Combeferre’s. But Courfeyrac hasn’t seen, spoken to, or Facebook stalked Combeferre in more than six years, so it’s possible that his brain, his memory, and the new city are just playing tricks on him.

But he also has to consider the possibility that this man is, in fact, Combeferre.

He’s taller than Courfeyrac remembers Combeferre being. But Courfeyrac himself is several inches taller than he was in high school, so that doesn’t really mean anything. This man is more filled-out than high school Combeferre was. The muscles of his shoulders ripple under his well-fitting shirt as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket, which adorns an ass that Courfeyrac can’t help but notice is  _ fantastic _ .

The man’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the arm that Courfeyrac can see is fully tattooed. He’s standing far enough away that Courfeyrac can’t make out many of the designs, but he lets his eyes wander over the shapes he can make out inked on the man’s gorgeous skin.

Courfeyrac’s mouth goes dry.

There’s a moth tattooed just below the man’s elbow.

What are the chances that a random person whose laugh sounds just like Combeferre’s has a tattoo of Combeferre’s favorite animal? Statistical analysis wasn’t Courfeyrac’s best subject in school, but he knows enough about probability to know that it’s not likely.

He can’t deny it anymore. The circumstantial evidence that this stranger is actually Combeferre is growing.

This is approximately the last thing that Courfeyrac needs right now. He’s lived in this city for a week. He needs to focus on settling in and getting established at his new firm, not on whether he’s seeing his ex-boyfriend and probable love of his life in his new coffee shop.

* * *

Once he’s safely back in his apartment, he panic-paces around for a few minutes before he does the most sensible thing he can think of: he calls Marius.

“Courfeyrac!” Marius answers the call with a cheerful greeting. “How’s Boston? How’s the new firm?”

“Marius, I need help.”

“Tough case?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I need help with.” Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. “I think I might have seen Combeferre today.”

“ _ Combeferre _ , Combeferre?  _ The _ Combeferre? The one that got away?”

“Gosh, do you always have to call him that?”

“Well that’s what you always call him.”

“That’s different. The point is, what do I  _ do _ ?”

Marius hums. “Did he see you? Did he recognize you? When and where did this happen?”

“At a coffee shop this morning. I don’t think he saw me. And I really only saw his ass—I mean, his back, and his profile, and I heard his voice. And he was with this  _ guy _ , and they seemed really close.”

“Like, boyfriend close?”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Maybe.”

“Courfeyrac, it is for situations like this that Facebook was invented.”

“I muted him after we broke up, but I don’t think we ever unfriended each other.”

“So unmute him and commence stalking.”

“Usually I’m the one giving  _ you _ terrible advice, so it’s nice to have the shoe on the other foot for once.”

“You were going to end up doing it anyway, weren’t you?”

Courfeyrac sighs again. “Yeah, probably.”

* * *

Courfeyrac commences his Facebook stalking of Combeferre. He searches for him, so as to unmute him, and discovers two things.

The first is that that was definitely Combeferre at the Musain.

The second is that yeah, the blonde guy that was with him is probably his boyfriend.

At least, they’re both in Combeferre’s profile picture, arms around each other’s shoulders, each waving a small rainbow flag. The picture is captioned, “Happy Pride!!!”

High school Combeferre never would have used more than one exclamation mark. Whatever Combeferre’s feelings for this guy—someone named Enjolras is tagged in the photo so that must be him—they must be stronger than his feelings ever were for Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, swallows his pride, and clicks on the icon to message Combeferre.

_ Hey _ , he types,  _ I’ve just moved to Boston, and I see you’re here too! Want to get a coffee and catch up sometime? No pressure. _

He sends it before he has the chance to realize what a terrible idea this actually is.

The reply takes less than fifteen minutes to arrive.

_ Hi Courfeyrac _ , it says.  _ It’s great to hear from you. Coffee would be great. When are you free?  _

Courfeyrac has to take about seven deep breaths before he can reply.

And then he decides to wait a few minutes so he doesn’t look too eager.

So he walks a few laps around his apartment, organizes some papers on his desk, and writes his response.

_ Hey Combeferre, I work pretty conventional hours, 9-5, with a lot of working from home, too. Did you have anywhere particular in mind? I live in Jamaica Plain, and I haven’t really explored much of the city yet beyond the few blocks around my apartment and my office. _

This time, the reply is almost instantaneous.

It makes Courfeyrac’s stomach flutter to think of Combeferre sitting at his computer or staring at his phone, getting that message and feeling like he needs to reply right away.

_ Hey Courf _ (the use of the nickname makes Courfeyrac’s stomach flutter all over again)  _ I live in JP too! It’s a great neighborhood—we have our own Pride block party every June a few days after the big city parade. That’s where my profile pic was taken, actually. In terms of meeting up, there’s a coffee shop called the Musain on Centre Street that I think you’ll love. _

Well funny thing about that. That’s exactly where Courfeyrac saw Combeferre this morning, setting this whole thing in motion. But there is no way that Courfeyrac is going to say that. Not yet.

He decides to play it casual.

_ Yeah, I’ve been in there once or twice and it seems like a nice spot. I know it’s short notice, but could you do tomorrow? Weekends are really the only time I’m free. _

He’s also free some evenings, but suggesting they get dinner together would be way too much, way too soon. Besides, who knows how Combeferre’s boyfriend would feel about Combeferre having dinner with his high school boyfriend.

Waiting for a reply, Courfeyrac feels like he’s going to choke on his nerves.

_ Tomorrow is good. Maybe around 10? _

Not even receiving his bar exam results a few months ago filled Courfeyrac with this much relief.

_ Sounds good. See you tomorrow! _

He expects that to be the end of it, but he receives one more message from Combeferre.

_ I’m really looking forward to seeing you again, Courf. :) _

High school Combeferre never used emoticons.

* * *

Courfeyrac makes sure he’s outside the Musain by 9:50 the following morning. 

He sees Combeferre down the block, and his heart and his stomach, and possibly his liver and kidneys, he’s not sure, decide to rearrange themselves inside him.

Will Combeferre go for a handshake? A hug? Some awkward combination of the two? The last time the two of them were physically together and talking, they were breaking up. There was a lot of crying and a lot of promises were made. Promises that neither one of them kept in the following years.

Combeferre’s eyes flicker with recognition when he sees Courfeyrac, and as he’s still at least fifteen feet away, he gives a little wave as he smiles. And God, what a smile. 

“Hi!” Combeferre says when he’s close enough for conversation. “Courfeyrac, it’s really good to see you!”

And then he pulls him into a friendly hug.

Nothing like the way they touched each other seven years ago, but comfortable and familiar.

Courfeyrac really hopes that Combeferre can’t feel how fast his heart is beating.

“It’s really good to see you, too,” Courfeyrac says as they separate. He indicates the door. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

They make their way to the counter and order, and despite Courfeyrac offering, Combeferre insists on paying for his own coffee. Once they have their mugs, they settle in two chairs by the window.

“What brings you to Boston?” Combeferre asks.

“Work.” Courfeyrac replies. “I finished law school, passed the bar, and got a job, like a grownup.”

“I always knew you would be a lawyer,” Combeferre says with a smile that goes straight to Courfeyrac’s heart.

“What about you?” Courfeyrac asks before his heart can climb up into his throat. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“I’m a Freedom Trail guide.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.”

“You guide tourists around the highlights of colonial Boston all day?”

Combeferre nods. “I absolutely do.”

“You deal with tourists all day?”

“You just asked that, and yes I do.”

“Where the hell do you get the patience to do that? Especially with how the Boston Tea Party has been co-opted by the whacko right-wingers who complain about any taxes whatsoever?”

“I mean, it’s the corporate-ization of history that gets me more than anything else, but yeah. Staying in character while people go on about how all taxes are a violation of human rights is… tough.”

“What character do you play?” Courfeyrac asks. He can’t listen to Combeferre go on about justice right now. He just can’t.

“There are two. One was the first Apothecary General of the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War--”

“That’s perfect for you.” Courfeyrac can’t stop himself from interrupting.

“That was my first thought too, to be honest. He was also friends with Alexander Hamilton and involved in what would today be considered insider trading with Hamilton’s whole debt-buying plan, but he doesn’t like to talk about that,” Combeferre says with a smile.

“And the other?”

“John Adams’ law partner.”

“Wow.”

“I thought of you every day I was studying to take on the role, and I think of you every time I interpret him.”

“That’s… that’s… wow.”

For perhaps the first time since he began talking at the precocious age of ten months, Courfeyrac is genuinely speechless.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says after a moment. “That was probably the wrong thing to say.”

“Not if it’s true.”

“It is. That’s why I said it.”

“Right. Of course.”

Courfeyrac can sense the conversational roadblock coming, and he doesn’t know how to prevent it.

Combeferre must be feeling something similar, because he reaches out and tentatively places his hand on Courfeyrac’s arm.

“It’s good to see you again, Courfeyrac,” he says softly. “It really is.”

He withdraws his hand with a gentle squeeze and Courfeyrac immediately misses the contact.

“It’s good to see you too.”

Combeferre takes a sip of coffee, looking thoughtful.

“We’re having a barbecue for Labor Day, Enjolras and I. Enjolras is—“

“—the blonde in your profile picture?” Courfeyrac can’t bear to hear the words “my boyfriend” come out of Combeferre’s mouth.

“That’s him. I met him in college. He’s the best. You’d love him.”

“I’m sure I would,” Courfeyrac replies, actually sure of no such thing.

“But seriously, would you like to come to the barbecue? Would you be up for meeting him? I know he’d love to meet you now that you’re living here.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Awesome. We live right around the corner from here. I’ll send you the invite and the address and everything.”

“The invite? How big a deal is this thing?”

“Oh, it’s all very casual. Just a bunch of friends eating burgers and drinking beer. But having the invites helps everything stay organized. And when someone has a question, we can usually say the answer’s on the invite. Although most of the people coming also came last year, so that reduces the number of questions.”

Courfeyrac receives the formal Facebook invitation to “Enjolras and Combeferre’s Third Annual Labor Day Barbecue” three days later, on the Wednesday before the holiday in question.

He RSVPs “yes” before he can talk himself out of it.

Making rash decisions concerning Combeferre on Facebook is becoming something of a habit.

The barbecue is sort of a semi-potluck, so Courfeyrac makes his abuela’s arroz con pollo recipe, and hopes that Combeferre remembers how much he loved it when she made it.

Labor Day dawns sunny and clear, perfect weather for a barbecue. Enjolras and Combeferre’s gathering doesn’t start until noon, and it’ll take Courfeyrac five minutes to walk there, so he has some time to kill.

He tries to get some work done, but finds it even harder than usual to concentrate on his cases.

It’s the longest few hours of his life (or at least it feels that way), but at long last, it’s time to leave.

Like most of the neighborhood, Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment is one of several in a multi-family house. There’s a path to a gate on one side that presumably leads to the backyard. Courfeyrac can hear music and laughter floating from that direction, so that’s where he goes.

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre greets him warmly, and thanks him for bringing the arroz con pollo. And then, “Come and meet everyone!”

Combeferre introduces Courfeyrac to at least half a dozen of his friends. There are Grantaire and Bahorel, who are discussing why boxing is superior to CrossFit; there are Joly and Musichetta, who are making anguished faces as they watch Bossuet experiment with burger toppings; there’s Jehan, who is unironically arranging wildflowers in Mason jars. And then there are only two people left. Courfeyrac already recognizes one of them as Combeferre leads him over to a corner of the yard.

He’s about to officially meet the man who has replaced him in Combeferre’s heart.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre begins, “this is Feuilly, and this is Enjolras.”

They both offer their hands, which Courfeyrac shakes. “Nice to meet you both.”

“You too,” Enjolras replies.

“Courfeyrac, can I get you a drink?” Combeferre asks. “We’ve got a ton of choices: water, juice, soda, beer, probably some wine somewhere…”

“A beer would be great, thanks.”

“I’ll go grab that for you.”

“Thanks.”

“So Courfeyrac,” Feuilly says once Combeferre is beyond earshot. “Enjolras and I were just discussing how the labor movement in this country has really struggled in the last few decades.”

Courfeyrac can’t help but think this is some kind of set-up to gauge his worthiness.

“Oh absolutely,” he says. “All these so-called ‘right to work’ laws that are actually just union-busting—it’s a travesty.”

“That’s what you were just saying, right, Enjolras?” Feuilly replies.

“That, and how the workers at the big fast food chains are having to fight so hard for a living wage and sick days.” 

“I mean, who wants sick people preparing their food?” Courfeyrac chimes in.

“Exactly,” Enjolras replies.

“Here you go, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, handing him a beer bottle. “Hey Feuilly, can I show you that thing I was talking about earlier?”

“What thing?” Feuilly asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

“You know… the  _ thing _ .”

“...Right. That. Sure. Nice to meet you, Courfeyrac.”

And with that, Courfeyrac is left alone with Combeferre’s boyfriend.

“I think Combeferre mentioned you two met in college?” Courfeyrac asks, the pitch of his voice about half an octave higher than normal.

“Yeah, in a political theory class. We’ve been close to inseparable ever since.”

Courfeyrac takes a long swig of beer. “That’s really sweet.”

“He talks about you a lot, you know. He always has.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras turns towards Courfeyrac, facing him straight on.

“Courfeyrac, look, I know we just met, but can I be brutally honest with you?”

_ Here comes the “stay away from my boyfriend” chat _ , Courfeyrac thinks.

He sighs. “Yeah, of course.”

Enjolras nods. He seems to be working himself up to something.

“I don’t think Combeferre ever got over your breakup.”

“What?”

Courfeyrac navigates complex legal issues every day. He’s supposed to see the other side’s moves coming from a mile away, but this conversation has him completely flummoxed.

“I think he’s still hung up on you,” Enjolras says.

“I’m sorry. That was such a long time ago, and I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information.”

“Well, now you have a chance to make it right.”

“What does that mean?”

What the hell is Enjolras getting at? Why would Combeferre’s boyfriend encourage Courfeyrac to do… whatever it is he’s encouraging Courfeyrac to do?

“Are you seriously encouraging me to try to get Combeferre to cheat on you? Or do you have some sort of weird version of an open relationship that no one told me about?”

Enjolras just gazes at Courfeyrac for a few seconds.

“...Cheat? ...Relationship? I… I…”

And then he starts laughing.

It’s not just a little chuckle, either. It’s a whole-hearted, whole body laugh. Enjolras leans over, putting down his drink and bracing himself on the table to steady himself.

Whatever the joke is, Courfeyrac isn’t in on it, and it is not a good feeling.

“There has been a huge misunderstanding,” Enjolras wheezes once he finally has the breath to do so. “I’m so sorry. Combeferre and I are not together. We’re roommates and very close platonic friends, and that’s that.” 

For only the second time in his life, Courfeyrac is utterly speechless.

“So… you… you…”

“Courfeyrac, I have had to listen to him whine about how wonderful you are and all of his regrets for  _ years _ . I’m so sorry for whatever part I played in this confusion, but you do not need to worry about Combeferre cheating on me because there’s no relationship.”

“I…”

“And if I may offer some friendly advice?”

“...Uh-huh?”

“I meant it about him still being into you. Ask him out.”

* * *

“Hey Ferre, do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Maybe in private?”

Combeferre leads Courfeyrac to an area of the yard that is as private as they could hope for, under the circumstances.

“I just had an interesting conversation with Enjolras. It cleared up a misconception that I’ve had for a while.”

“Yeah?”

Is Courfeyrac’s brain trying to fool him again, or does Combeferre sound hopeful?

“This is kind of embarrassing, actually. See, I thought you and he… I thought the two of you were together. Romantically.”

There’s that beautiful laugh of Combeferre’s again. The laugh that Courfeyrac heard in the Musain two weeks ago that set all of this in motion.

“I’m so sorry, Courfeyrac. I can see why you thought that, and I’m sorry I didn’t clarify.”

“I was so confused, and pretty heartbroken too.”

“What happened to us?” Combeferre asks. “We promised each other we’d stay in touch, we’d stay friends, but we didn’t. What went wrong?”

“Do you want the brutally honest truth?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says.

“I didn’t know how to be your friend without being in love with you. And I think I still don’t.”

“Maybe that doesn’t need to be a problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Go on a date with me.”

“I was about to ask  _ you _ out!”

Combeferre grins. “So that’s a yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

And he does.

* * *

The next time Courfeyrac goes to the Musain on a Saturday morning to work, seeing Combeferre there with his boyfriend is very intentional.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading!
> 
> This fic is based on [this post](http://courferrest.tumblr.com/post/104317790474/ok-but-picture-this-courferre-dated-in-high) by courferrest on tumblr.
> 
> Speaking of tumblr, I'm there as [missmarionmac](http://www.missmarionmac.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Title from the song of the same name from the soundtrack of the movie "About Time."


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